Against the Storm1 (14 page)

“Hello, Trace. It’s good to see you.”

He turned at the sound of a female voice. “Mrs. Logan. It’s always a pleasure.” At fifty, Teresa Logan was beginning to show the strain of life as a senator’s wife. Fine lines marked the corners of her eyes and settled around her mouth. Her blond hair had begun to thin. There had been a time when she had been as beautiful as her daughter.

Cassidy appeared just then, looked up at him and smiled. “Hello, Trace.” They had dated the summer after Cassidy’s graduation from high school. She had just turned eighteen, a feisty little auburn-haired girl with big, innocent blue eyes. Trace had just finished two years at community college.

Cassidy was married to a prominent surgeon now, her hair now blond and swept up in a sophisticated style.

“It’s good to see you, Cassidy.”

“It’s certainly been a while.” She smiled. “I hope you’re doing well?”

“Business is good. Life is good. How about you?”

Before she could answer, her father, the senator, appeared at her side. “Trace. It’s good to see you.” Reasonably tall, with a solid build, and at sixty still setting women’s hearts aflutter, Senator Logan was all smiles tonight, though when Trace had been dating his daughter, the man had done everything in his power to end the relationship.

He needn’t have worried. It was never serious between them. Cassidy had bigger fish to fry and Trace had been set on a career in the army. Still, they had liked each other, which was enough to worry a man with the kind of political ambitions Garrett Logan had, even back then.

“Trace, this is my aide, Richard Meyers.” Slenderly built, Meyers was dressed in expensive clothes and gold aviator-style glasses. He was vain, Trace guessed, with plenty of ambition.

“And this is my media coordinator, Duncan Ross, and his wife, Elaine.” Duncan was a balding man in his forties, with sincerity stamped all over his face. Elaine was short and plump and looked like a well-dressed housewife, which only added to her husband’s credibility.

“Nice to meet you,” Trace said.

“Trace is an old friend of Cassidy’s.”

Cassidy rolled her pretty blue eyes. “Not that old, Daddy, please.”

The senator laughed. His expensive black tuxedo fit him perfectly, the ideal contrast to his leonine mane of silver hair. “Trace and Cassidy dated for a few weeks one summer.”

“We were just friends,” Trace said. “At the time, her father was terrified his little girl was going to run off and marry some cowboy with horse manure on his boots. But Cassidy was a lot smarter than that.” Everyone laughed.

“Trace joined the Rangers and I went off to college,” Cassidy explained. “That’s where I met Jonathan.”

Trace smiled and shrugged. “And the rest, as they say, is history.”

“I’m sorry Jonathan couldn’t be here tonight,” Cassidy said. “I would have liked for you to meet him.”

“I’d have liked that, too.”

They chatted for a while. Trace had never been a fan of Garrett Logan or his politics; in the last election, he had voted for the other candidate. But Logan was a smooth talker with the good looks and style that won voter confidence. Now, tired of the D.C. scene, he was running for governor. Odds were he’d win that, too.

The conversation waned and Trace excused himself. He started toward Maggie, who had never been completely out of his sight, and saw that she was still in conversation with a group of admirers. He flashed her a glance, caught one in return and began to make his way around the room. He was looking for anyone who fit the description the Realtor had given them, or anyone who seemed to be taking more than a casual interest in Maggie.

There were only a few big men in the right age bracket, with salt-and-pepper hair. Trace made a point of introducing himself to each one and getting his name, but none pushed any of his hot buttons. Though there was always a chance something would turn up when he plugged their identities into the computer.

On the other hand, there seemed to be an endless number of men who took a more than casual interest in Maggie.

One was there now, good-looking, late thirties, dark hair and blue eyes. He had managed to separate her from the other guests vying for her attention. Trace felt a shot of adrenaline that tested his careful control. He told himself it wasn’t jealousy, and headed in Maggie’s direction.

M
aggie noticed Trace bearing down on her, and darted a glance around, expecting to see the stalker. Then she realized he was glaring at Roger, and relaxed. The photography instructor was hardly a threat. He was the man responsible for a good deal of her success.

“Trace, I’m glad you’re here. I’d like you to meet Roger Weller. I told you about him. I worked for Roger when I was in college. He was my mentor and I owe him a great deal.”

Roger gave her a lazy smile. “And I’ve been trying to collect for years.” His gaze ran over her, leaving no doubt as to what he meant. “So far it hasn’t worked.”

Maggie felt Trace stiffen beside her. “Is that so?”

“Roger and I are just friends,” she said firmly. “He doesn’t even live in Houston anymore, he lives in L.A.” She cast Roger a warning glance. He had always seemed to want more from their relationship than Maggie was willing to give, but he had never really pressed her. “I was his assistant. Roger taught me everything I know about photography.”

“I would have taught you a whole lot more, honey, if you’d just given me the chance,” he teased.

“Roger, please.” She looked up at Trace, saw his jaw clench. “He’s kidding. We’ve always had a very professional relationship.”

“That’s right. Maggie didn’t believe in mixing business with pleasure.”

Trace pinned him with a glare. “Too bad for you, I guess.”

“It’s nice seeing you, Roger,” Maggie said, taking hold of Trace’s arm. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, I’m afraid I need to mingle.”

“I’m in town for a while before I head back,” Roger told her. “Maybe we can have lunch.”

Maggie tried not to look at Trace, knew the temper she would see in his eyes if she did. Clearly, his disposition wasn’t nearly as calm as he liked to think.

She managed to smile. “I’m awfully busy, but maybe we can work something out.”

Roger’s mouth faintly curved.

Maggie turned and led Trace away before his testosterone got the best of him.

“Maybe you can work something out?” he said darkly.

“I was just trying to be polite. Besides, it isn’t as if we’re involved. You’re here as my bodyguard, nothing more. It really isn’t any of your business.”

“Oh, we’re involved. As soon as we get out of here, I’m going to show you exactly how involved we are.”

Maggie’s breath stalled. When she looked into those hot brown eyes, her heart skipped several beats. “You…you what?”

“One more word about
Roger
and I’ll haul you into the back room and show you right now.”

Maggie’s eyes widened. Dear God, he meant it! She could tell by the way his teeth were clenched, by the muscle that worked in his jaw. He was jealous, and more than a little aroused.

“We…we can’t leave—not yet.”

Trace took the words exactly as she meant them. She wasn’t going to stop him. She wanted him to kiss her, touch her, make love to her.

Beneath his tuxedo jacket, his broad shoulders relaxed. “That’s all right, darlin’. We’ve got all night.”

Her pulse started racing even faster than it was before. And now that she knew his intensions, knew what was going to happen after they left the gallery, she didn’t want to waste any more time than she had to.

The hours seemed to drag after that. Champagne flowed and trays of sumptuous hors d’oeuvres were devoured, refilled and greedily consumed again. More guests arrived. The police chief, Charley Benton, a stout man with a receding hairline, stopped by. Maggie spotted him talking to Senator Logan, their heads bent close together, Benton laughing at something the senator said. The newspapers had mentioned their close relationship and that Benton was backing the senator’s bid for governor.

“You’re selling a lot of pieces,” Trace said as a framed photo titled
Taste the Wind
was tagged with a red sticker to indicate it was sold. It showed a deserted stretch of shore, palm trees bent like ballet dancers, their fronds moving gracefully to the wind’s relentless song.

A framed O’Connell photograph, depending on its size, went for as much as twenty-seven hundred dollars. Of course, there were a lot of expenses, and the gallery took a hefty share of the profit.

Trace’s attention turned to the photograph beside it. “I’m partial to this one,
Harbor Sunset.
Makes me want to go sailing.”

Maggie had taken the picture at dusk, a snapshot down a long row of gleaming white powerboats docked in the Blue Fin Marina near Seabrook. People, just small specks in the photo, sat on their decks sipping icy drinks, mesmerized by the sunset casting soft, red-gold light over the bay. “Someone else must have liked it, too,” Trace added.

Maggie smiled at the Sold sticker. “I guess your champagne toast worked. This was definitely the most successful show I’ve ever had.”

His gaze sharpened. “Was? Past tense? Does that mean you’re ready to leave?”

His dark eyes glinted. She read the heat, the promise.

“Yes…” was all she said.

Trace made a brief call on his cell, and a few minutes later the limousine appeared in the alley behind the gallery. Just as Maggie had done several times during the evening, he checked his phone to be sure no message had come from Ashley. Then he waited as Maggie said a quick goodbye to Faye Langston and disappeared quietly out the back door.

He took off his tuxedo jacket and tossed it onto the seat, then helped her in and climbed in beside her. They both leaned back with a sigh. “You did good, kid,” Trace said.

Maggie grinned. “I did, didn’t I?”

She turned toward him, removed his hat and set it up in the rear window behind the seat, then ran a hand through his hair, setting the heavy dark strands back
into proper position. “I’ve been wanting to do that all evening.”

“That so? Well, this is what I’ve been wanting to do.” Catching her chin, he tilted her head back and settled his mouth over hers. Soft, moist lips. Warm, sweet breath. Instantly, he went hard.

“Damn, I want you,” he said between nibbling kisses, slow, easy ones that had them both breathing faster. His control slipped a little as her lips parted and his tongue slid in to taste her. Maggie kissed him back and the kisses he’d meant only as a prelude deepened, turned hot and fierce. His insides tightened and his groin throbbed.

One of the rhinestone straps on her gown slipped off her shoulder. Trace pressed his mouth against her bare skin, inhaled the floral scent of her perfume. Maggie made a soft little sigh as he slid the second strap off, eased the gown down to her waist, leaving her breasts exposed. Her nipples were big and pink and pretty. He took one into his mouth, suckled, tasted, felt it harden against his tongue, and heard himself groan.

“Trace…” she whispered, arching upward, urging him to take more of her. Her breasts were full and tilted slightly upward. Her skin was pale and as soft as the petals of a rose. He took what he wanted, took his fill, and reveled in her sweet little mews of pleasure.

He wanted more.

He told himself he couldn’t take her, not here. Not in the backseat of a car. But his hands gripped the hem of her sequined gown and shoved it up to her waist. She was wearing a tiny black lace scrap of a thong. He pushed it aside and his gaze fell on the tangle of ruby curls between her legs. The elastic snapped in his fin
gers as if it wished to do his bidding, and he eased her thighs apart and began to stroke her.

She was wet and slick and he ached to be inside her. Lust clouded his senses, a red haze that blinded him and urged him on. He could hardly breathe, hardly think.

“I need you,” he said, kissing her again, plundering her mouth, inhaling her scent. His hands found her breasts, teased, caressed them. “I don’t want to stop.”

“Don’t…don’t stop, Trace, please.”

Insanity took over, destroying his resolve. All he knew was heat and driving need. When he felt her unbuttoning his pleated white shirt, felt her fingers gliding over the muscles of his chest, he hardened to the point of pain. When she tugged the shirt from the waistband of his slacks, began to work his zipper, he nearly came.

“Maggie…God…”

“I want you, Trace. I can’t wait any longer.”

He knew better. Tried to fight for control. He had planned to take her back to his house, seduce her slowly, properly. Instead, he stroked her, felt her tremble, heard her moan. He didn’t remember opening the condom, sheathing himself. He just felt the swift, hot burst of pleasure as he thrust himself deeply inside.

He tried to slow down, give her time to adjust, but when she moved beneath him, when she whispered his name with a sob, he completely lost control.

Long strokes claimed her. Deep, hard, penetrating strokes made her his. He wanted more. He took her and took her, made her come and then come again before he allowed himself to take his pleasure.

His pulse still thundered as he slowly spiraled down. Beneath his hand, the beating of her heart matched his own. He had told the driver to take his time, and thank God, the man had listened. It wasn’t until Trace heard
the deep male voice over the intercom telling him they had almost reached their destination that his thoughts began to focus and he realized what he had done.

Silently cursing, he eased himself from the soft warmth beneath him, got rid of the condom he barely remembered putting on.

“Dammit, I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

She adjusted her position on the seat, pulled her skirt down and the narrow rhinestone straps back into place. She looked up at him, and in the glow from the tiny white lights illuminating the interior, he saw her smile.

“That was some ride, cowboy.”

Heat rose at the back of his neck. “I was planning a more subtle seduction.”

Maggie reached out and cupped his cheek. “Were you?”

He turned his head, kissed her palm. “Don’t think for a minute we’re done here. I’m not through with you, lady. Not by a long shot.”

She smiled as if that had been her plan all along. “Ashley said she wouldn’t wait up.”

His mouth faintly curved. “I’d kiss you again, but if I do, I’m afraid of what the driver might see when he opens the door.”

Maggie laughed.

They climbed out of the car and he led her up the walk. He turned off the alarm, then lifted her into his arms and carried her inside. He heard his high-tech doggy door squeak, knew Rowdy had trotted into the kitchen from the backyard. Trace kept walking. Inside the master bedroom, he closed the door.

It was getting late but he wasn’t the least bit tired. He was taking Maggie O’Connell to bed, and sleep was the last thing on his mind.

The storm had politely waited to break until they’d reached the safety of Trace’s house. Maggie lay snuggled against him, his solid length and hard-muscled body a comfort as lightning flashed and thunder rumbled outside the bedroom window. Inside, she lay warm and content in his big king-size bed, beneath the soft breeze of a ceiling fan, and a lightweight down comforter.

They had made love twice since he had taken her to bed. The first time was the slow seduction he had promised, a melding of mouths and bodies, the soft give-and-take of a leisurely joining. The second time was more fierce, more demanding. Her cowboy had a sexual appetite as strong as she had suspected. He liked making love and he wasn’t shy about taking what he wanted.

But his loving wasn’t one-sided. Trace gave as much as he demanded.

As she curled against him in the darkness, one of his hard arms draped over her waist, she listened to the sound of his breathing, mixed with the heavy rumble of rain on the roof and the fierce sighs of the wind outside the window.

She thought of the pleasure he had given her, deeper, more consuming than anything she had experienced before. She thought of the way he had kissed her, caressed her, and a thread of desire curled through her.

Nestled spoon fashion against him, she felt his body begin to stir, felt the heavy length of his building erection. She could hardly believe it. Surely he couldn’t want her again so soon.

“I can feel your heartbeat,” he whispered against her
ear. “I know what you’re thinking.” He bit down on the lobe. “I’m thinking it, too.”

He moved a little, prepared himself. Maggie moaned as he entered her, began the rhythmical movements that aroused her, made her ache with yearning. He was big and hard, his strokes long and deep, quickening her blood and overwhelming her senses. Her body contracted around him, gloved him, milked him as he rode her. Pleasure rolled through her, dense and fierce, deep and drugging. Her climax hit hard, sucked her in and wouldn’t let go. Her body was beginning to attune itself to his, to anticipate, to crave his invasion, relish it.

Trace groaned as he followed her to release, held her as she waited for her heartbeat to slow. Seconds ticked past. His muscles relaxed. His breathing went deeper and she knew he had settled back into sleep.

Maggie closed her eyes, weary and spent and wonderfully sated. But she didn’t fall sleep. Instead, she listened to the heavy fall of rain and the wind whistling through the trees, her mind spinning back through the weeks since that day at the Texas Café. She had convinced herself what she felt for Trace was merely physical. He was really a hot guy and she was wildly attracted to him. That kind of desire was new to her and she wanted to experiment, find out what it was all about.

In college, she’d been attracted to Michael Irving’s intelligence. Sex had been sort of a personal challenge, something to do to overcome the trauma after her night with Josh Varner. She’d met David Lyons and been attracted to his steady nature, his comfortable companionship. But she had needs, she had discovered during the time she had been with him. Sex was usually more her idea than his and never truly satisfying.

What she felt for Trace was different. Deeper, more alluring. Worrisome.

She didn’t know what she wanted from him aside from more of his mind-boggling, incredible lovemaking.

She told herself that was enough.